Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (18 page)

yes, it
was
satisfying to throw Brandon’s own words back in his face

and watch them land with such delicious force. He handed the dishes

to Brandon with a casual, “Here, wash these.”

Brandon’s gaze drifted to the dishwasher, his mouth opening,

then closing.
Good boy.
He gathered up the dishes he hadn’t eaten

from and took them to the sink. Jonathan had deliberately left a cube

of Gouda on the tray, and as he’d suspected, Brandon snuck it into

his mouth as soon as his back was turned.

“I saw that,” Jonathan said. “And that’s eight, by the way.” He

made a tutting noise. “Your poor ass. What did it ever do to merit

such flagrant disrespect from its owner?” Brandon’s back went

tense—and wasn’t
that
a lovely sight?—but he ran the water, rinsed

off the plates, and set them in the drainer with practiced competence.

No dishwasher in his apartment.
Then he turned around and waited,

hands at his sides.

Well, maybe he was learning something after al . Jonathan smiled,

nodded. “Upstairs, then. Follow two steps behind me at all times.

And pay close attention; I may direct you with my hands.”

Jonathan set off at a brisk stride toward the staircase, glancing

behind him once or twice to make sure Brandon was keeping up.

Just barely, and no wonder, with the morning he’d had. Still, best to

begin as they meant to go on. No point in coddling him, or he’d start

expecting the same treatment every day.

They reached his office, and Jonathan sat down at his desk,

opened his laptop, grinned to himself at the riding crop lying beside

it. Brandon simply stood there looking at him, shifting from one foot

to the other, shivering a little. It was a bit colder up here—comfortable

for Jonathan, but he was fully dressed—and Brandon hadn’t eaten

anything. Not exactly any extra fat on that body to insulate him.

Probably had a bit of adrenaline hangover, too. Still, teaching him to

hold still was definitely in order.

Jonathan pointed to Brandon, then to the cushion on the floor

beside his desk.

Brandon blinked at him as if he didn’t understand.
Oh, please
.

“Yes, Jonathan?”

“Nine,” Jonathan sighed. “Even
dogs
understand pointing.”

Brandon’s whole face scrunched up, teeth flashing in a snarl.

“What happened to not treating me like an animal?” he demanded,

yet even as he spoke he was stalking over to the cushion, dropping to

his knees.

“If you insist on acting like one,” Jonathan said, calm as he

could make it, “then what else am I to do? You may not believe this,

Brandon, but I’d really rather you not make me punish you like this

on day one. And ten, of course; please tell me you’re done.”

For a second, it looked like he wasn’t—he glared up at Jonathan,

opened his mouth, but then settled for baring his teeth again. Almost

as intimidating as a snarling dog—or probably would’ve been, at least,

if he weren’t naked and kneeling.

Speaking of kneeling . . . “Back straight, hold your head up, eyes

on me at all times.” Brandon looked up at him—still steaming, but

obedient at least. “Good, now spread your knees— that’s it, a little

more, if you please. Shoulder width apart, always.” He leaned over

in his chair, reached down and gave the head of Brandon’s flaccid

cock a little pinch. A sound choked and died in Brandon’s throat.

“You must never deny me access to what’s mine, after al .” Brandon’s

hands, on his thighs, curled into fists. “And hands behind your back.

Shoulders nice and square. You can lace your fingers together, or hold

one wrist in the opposite hand—whichever you prefer.”

Brandon did as told, bringing the muscles of his chest, stomach,

shoulders, and upper arms into stunning definition. Jonathan just

took it all in for a second, reached out to touch, tweaked a nipple

hard enough to make Brandon jump and hiss. How tightly coiled he

was, how ready to spring up with his fury. But he wouldn’t dare now,

and time and exhaustion would wear down the urge soon enough, let

his gentler urges, his deeper ones, shine through.

“Beautiful,” Jonathan whispered, skimming his knuckles across

Brandon’s cheek, catching his bottom lip with his thumb. Brandon

held so still he trembled with it. Probably resisting the urge to bite.

“One last thing now: sit back, ass on your heels. Yes, I know it hurts,

but you’ve brought that on yourself. Do it anyway.”

Again Brandon obeyed with only half a second’s hesitation, the

tension in his thighs not so much lessening as just shifting—going

from holding himself a hair’s width above his heels to bracing against

the pain of putting weight on his well-spanked ass. Jonathan couldn’t

see it, but he rather liked to imagine that Brandon’s hands were fisting

behind his back.

“Very good,” he said. He picked up the crop by his laptop—

Brandon’s eyes followed, widened at the sight of it. “Now, you stay

just like that. Don’t move an inch. Don’t let your shoulders slouch, or

your chin fal , or your spine curve. Don’t look around the room.” So

of course
Brandon’s eyes immediately shifted to the massive reef tank

in the wall between the office and the living room. But it seemed an

involuntary movement, quickly corrected, and the tank
was
rather

hypnotizing, so Jonathan pressed on without cal ing him on it.

“Don’t speak. Don’t ask for permission to speak. You will be bored.

You will get terribly sore. Just focus on me and push through it. And

if you lapse?” He tapped the crop ever-so-lightly against Brandon’s

chest. “I’ll correct you immediately. Try not to make me need to; I
do

have work to do, after al .”

Surprisingly, it took several minutes before the inevitable

fidgeting set in. Just a slight movement, a jerk of Brandon’s shoulder,

but enough to catch Jonathan’s notice. He scooped up the crop and

slapped it across Brandon’s chest, hard enough to make Brandon

clench his jaw. It was such a pleasing sight that Jonathan almost

wished Brandon had broken position at the strike so he could hit

him again. But Brandon’s back remained straight, eyes still focused

on Jonathan—albeit with that now-familiar glare. Well, he’d train

that out of him soon enough. Give him reasons to smile instead.

Jonathan went back to work. He had to correct Brandon twice

more in the next ten minutes, but then not at all for a surprisingly

long while. About an hour or so later, he noticed Brandon’s gaze

taking on a slightly fogged-over look, as if he were about to drift

off into that light, hazy trance where time stops dragging and pain

falls away.
Good.
He’d not expected Brandon to come anywhere near

subspace so soon, but there was no denying the man was one giant

mass of untapped potential.

Then Brandon’s chin dipped, his head snapping up the moment

it touched his chest.

Great. Not subspace, just nodding off.
Jonathan snatched up the

crop and snapped it hard, twice, over Brandon’s left nipple
.

Brandon fell right over, one hand braced to the floor, the other

hand pressing to the bright red marks blooming on his chest before

Jonathan could add another. The crop hit the back of his hand,

instead. “Ow, what the f—!”

“That’s thirteen. One for fal ing asleep, one for breaking position

so thoroughly, one for speaking out of turn. Would you care to try

for fourteen, or would you like to get back into position? And I’ll say

this now for free and then never again without a demerit: if you
ever

put your hands between yourself and my strike again, I
will
make you

sorry.”

And he could see it written all over Brandon’s face:
Sorrier than

I am right now?

Still, Brandon moved back into position, more or less. His

knees weren’t spread quite enough, weren’t lined up perfectly with

his shoulders. Jonathan gave him two hard corrective strikes against

the insides of his thighs, and Brandon shouted, doubled over. But he

kept his hands behind his back, straightened up quickly—and spread

his thighs out.

“It’s all right,” Jonathan said to the panic writ large on Brandon’s

face. “I won’t fault you for an involuntary reaction. You kept your

hands out of the way, and you corrected yourself quickly. That’s good

enough.”

Jonathan went back to work, but it wasn’t more than half an hour

before Brandon was shaking with the strain of holding position, of

holding still, his jaw clenched, his breathing ragged. Truth to tell,

Jonathan was surprised he’d lasted this long. Helped to be so fit, he

supposed. And that pride and iron will didn’t hurt matters either.

“You’ve done well, Brandon,” he said, leaning forward in his chair

to smooth a hand over Brandon’s trembling shoulder. Brandon’s

breath hitched, and he tensed like a man fighting himself—likely

resisting the urge to jerk away from Jonathan’s touch. “Very well for

your first day. Why don’t you lie down and rest?”

Brandon stared at him as though he thought this was some kind

of test, that any second the crop would come out again. But Jonathan

shook his head. “I’m serious. You’ve earned it. Go on, lie down and

put your head on the cushion. Stretch those sore muscles; I know you

must be aching terribly by now.”

Relief swept over Brandon’s face—until he started to move, and

then it was all clenched eyes and bared teeth and hisses, even a quiet

moan that went straight to Jonathan’s far-too-long-neglected cock.

Good Lord, he couldn’t
wait
until tonight when he could let himself

go, drive himself over and over into that hot mouth until he

burst
. . .

He cleared his throat, discreetly palmed his aching cock through

his pants beneath the desk. Brandon’s eyes were jammed shut anyway,

though he’d managed to unfold himself, more or less, had slumped

onto his side on the floor, cushion wedged beneath one shoulder and

his head. He looked absolutely miserable, cold, curled up like a lost

child. Jonathan could hear his stomach growling.

He
almost
stood up to get him a blanket. Almost.

CHAPTER
10

ran woke up freezing, hungry, and stiff in a semi-dark room,

curled uncomfortably on a hard surface that smelled faintly of

lemon. Wood polish? Arrhythmic tapping drifted over his head—

fingers on a keyboard.
Jonathan’s office.

Well, he supposed that explained why he was naked.

He wanted to roll over, stretch his aching muscles, curl up tighter

to ward off the chill. Felt like he’d been strung up by the wrists and

beaten for hours.

Suppose that’s not so far from the truth.

But if he moved, Jonathan would know he was awake. And if

Jonathan knew he was awake, he’d
want
something from him. And

Bran wasn’t sure he could handle that right now.

“Good nap?”

Fuck.

The tapping stopped. “Fourteen; I know you’re awake.”

“I slept like
shit
, Jonathan.” He didn’t open his eyes—didn’t

want to look up at Jonathan’s infuriating fucking face—but since

the jig was up, he rolled onto his stomach, stretched from toes to

fingertips—
God, that feels
good—and then curled tight onto his side

again, seeking warmth.

“Pity,” Jonathan said without an ounce of sympathy. “And

goodness, we’re going to have to do something about that mouth of

yours. Foul language is so . . .
uncivilized.
”

Yeah, well fuck you too, pal.

The typing started up again. “It’s nearly eight. Are you hungry?”

He’d slept for over
four hours
? Christ. The last time he’d napped

more than fifteen minutes, he’d been too sick to go to work. “You

know I am.” He drew the pause out as long as he thought he could get

away with before adding, “Jonathan.”

Tap tap.
“Fifteen.”
Damn, too long.
“No lip, if you would.”